


The Blood We Share

by orphan_account



Category: Red Embrace (Video Games)
Genre: Am I tagging this right?, Childe/Sire Bond(s), Dissociation, F/M, Hatred, Human/Vampire Relationship, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, POV Second Person, Reincarnation, Roaring 20s, Self-Insert, Vampires, Where art thou dearest sire?, off-screen assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:35:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22316431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Ladies with bobbed hair, fur boas and the slinkiest dresses money can buy.Gentlemen in two-tone spats, derby hats and decked in three-piece suits, eyeing the aforementioned ladies.That's right, baby, a crackling voice spoke in your head, you're in the twenties, and there's nothing you can do about it!Or in other words, "A Roaring Twenties AU," where the Abattoir is a speakeasy. And what does the Abattoir remind you of?Vamp daddy.
Relationships: Ash/Sire, MC/Sire
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	The Blood We Share

Ladies with bobbed hair, fur boas and the slinkiest dresses money can buy. 

Gentlemen in two-tone spats, derby hats and decked in three-piece suits, eyeing the aforementioned ladies.

 _That's right, baby,_ a crackling voice spoke in your head, _you're in the twenties, and there's nothing you can do about it!_

You stand outside the place of your death, unbirth and undeath. A slaughterhouse disguised as a speakeasy. 

It's only around sunset, meaning that there aren't many people milling out or inside the bar, but there are enough people to shoot you looks of curiosity and disgust. 

Curiosity at your sleek, straight hair and delicate, feminine features. 

Disgust at the skinny legs peeking out from under a short black dress. 

A high neck means that they can't see the way your collarbone connects with your narrow shoulders, but the sharp planes and angles of your face makes you stand out more than you'd like to. 

_So much for fitting in._

You hold your head high and walk in, but your legs strain under the effort and even the kind-looking man smoking a cigar could barely steady your awkward gait. 

"Thank you..." You mutter quietly. 

The Abattoir looks unchanged from back then ( or is it back in the future? ), but instead of cages occupied by rattling dancers or speakers vaulted to the walls, a simple, circular stage is being wiped cleaned by a pair of men, likely in preparation for a singing starlet or an up-and-coming jazz band. The bar, _yes, that bar,_ is out in the back. Empty bar stools waiting for occupants, bottles of hard liquor waiting to be drunk and leather booths to the left would make for an almost picturesque view. 

_Heath would like this,_ you think.

A stocky-man with a worn face beckons to you from behind the bar: "What're ya havin'?"

_How cliche._

The only thing that would make it even more so is _that_ man sliding into the stool next to you, and serenading you with pick-up lines. 

You wanted to laugh, but something tells you it is for the best not draw any kind of unwanted attention to yourself. The last thing you needed was for you to end up on an electric chair in a shady asylum.

You were quite thirsty, after all. And even if it will make you the odd one out - because who asks for water at a bar? - you figure that the dark lines under your eyes might make you seem semi-intimidating. 

You throw back the glass like a shot, savouring every drip of water. Your mouth is refreshed, but your head throbs, like someone took a sledgehammer and pounded your skill with it. 

A small, ornate clock on the wall in front of you informs you of the time.

6:58 pm. 

You stare.

* * *

9:00 pm. 

You blink. 

You've been here for two hours and though the people have grew in number and the bartender moved to serve some boisterous young men, you have not moved a millimetre from the bar. 

Save for the metal bracelet sliding up and down your wrists and you trying to twist it in place, you have done absolutely nothing. A few men had eyed your alien form with marked interest, but you payed them no mind. They weren't your type, anyway. 

You're almost sorry that the warmth emanating from the velvet cushions is gone by the time you reach the revolving glass doors.

The night is dark, and there are a meagre amount of streetlamps placed here and there that barely pierce the darkness. The embers caged in the glass dance around like wisps of smoke from a fire long burnt out and you stand, for a moment, entranced by the performance. 

So entranced you are, that you don't notice the man making his way towards you.

Though you notice a tall shadow looming behind you, you twist back and bump into him. 

Dark eyes, as dark as void, stare back at you.

Your heart stills and your blood runs cold, as if dipped in liquid nitrogen.

"Excuse me, sir." You find your voice, so painfully quiet and hope - and dare you hope - that he mistakes it for shyness and not fear. That he dismisses you as nothing more than a young girl flustered at the sight of his slicked back hair and fine suit. Then, instead of sidestepping you, he grins a wide grin with too white rows of teeth to really be human. 

"I-" you begin, sinking your incisors into your lips. 

Pearls of blood form from the wound, and the void follows the path the warm liquid takes as it dribbles down your chin. 

"Come with me." He orders in a rich voice. 

"No!" Those three words charge up the batteries in your system into overdrive. You had to leave, _now._

The familiarly cruel pair of fangs glint in the dark, and you'd say that it was almost poetic that they looked like tiny, pointed moons if you weren't about to be sucked dry. 

Sharp nails, painted in black, dig in to your waist as you thrash about and try to bite at the hand clamping any scream that might escape. 

He drags your body, as your heels dug in to the gravel, into an unlit alleyway.

"I know who you are," he breathes, "Ash...oh...Ash, you thought I'd forget, didn't you?"

He traces a clawed finger down your chin, and brings up the blood to his lips, savouring the fear in your wide eyes as his serpentine tongue flicks out to lick his finger. The hand on your waist moves up to your neck, so slowly, and oh so purposefully, ensnares your slender neck like a vise. 

"Please, don't!" You choke out. 

_This isn't happening. This isn't happening. This isn't happening._

His pale face is calm, and it occurs to you, in a perverse way, that his face had never looked so handsome before. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for his fangs to pierce your clammy skin, for your blood to be drained in the throes of ecstasy, and to drink his blood and be reborn, _again._

A wet feeling of moisture at your neck. 

Teeth grazing the skin. 

"What are you waiting for-"

The clink of a belt buckle. 


End file.
